


You have something of mine

by CatLovePower



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Bards, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Being a Feral Bastard, Kidnapped Jaskier | Dandelion, Kidnapping, Possessive Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Rescue, it says Gen but they can be in love you decide, might be more than 5
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 22:47:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29409309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatLovePower/pseuds/CatLovePower
Summary: In which Jaskier gets kidnapped - a lot. That's it, that's the plot.A 5+1 of sorts, in which Jaskier is the damsel in distress for various reasons (while being feral as heck), and Geralt tries his best to help.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 16
Kudos: 166





	1. Fame

**Author's Note:**

> I was playing the game, and I have to say, the _patience_ game!Geralt displays while trying to rescue his misplaced bard was astonishing. I had to write more about that. So Jaskier will get kidnapped a lot, and Geralt will be the most patient and caring witcher ever. As he should be.

A freshman at Oxenfurt might have wondered what a witcher was doing in the main music hall of the academy. Most of the students, however, knew that Geralt was there with Jaskier, the famous master bard who sometimes wintered in the city, especially when artistic competitions were taking place.

There were wild rumors about the two of them, which the witcher was enjoying, as he eavesdropped on the various conversations around while everyone waited for the show to start. It was a nice change from the usual mean chatter about witchers.

For some, they were lovers, and Geralt tried not to smile at that – what they were was complicated – for others, Jaskier had secured his services as a bodyguard, which wasn’t that far from the truth.

There was a peculiar theory according to which Jaskier was part fae, and had bewitched him with a song. Why else would a bloodthirsty monster killer be sitting in the back of a crowded hall full of chatty artists, ready to endure hours of music and poetry recitation?

Geralt made sure not to dispel any rumors – Jaskier probably loved them too, since the idiot saw flattery in anything. The witcher wasn’t enthusiastic about the whole competition, but he had been surprised by Jaskier’s invitation to join him in Oxenfurt for the winter, and he was determined not to mess it up.

Even if it meant leaving his swords in his room and sitting through hours of… whatever was now happening on stage. He wasn’t sure he could name the instrument the young student was holding, or if he was playing it correctly.

Contrary to what he let everybody believe, Geralt didn’t dislike Jaskier’s music. Sure, the constant yammering and the broken rhymes of unfinished songs sometimes – often – got on his nerves, but there was something raw and true in them. 

The current contestant was as obnoxious, loud and grandiloquent as Jaskier, but his ballad didn’t spark joy the way his bard’s music did.

The judges, old professors sitting on the right side of the stage, were nodding and scribbling on parchment with serious faces, while the audience diligently applauded every participant.

A sudden lull got Geralt out of his thoughts, and he tried to pinpoint the reason. Someone whispered something to one of the judges, who made a mark on his paper with pinched lips. They quickly ushered the next musician on stage, while Geralt focused on the room, trying to catch snippets of conversation. 

“They said Jaskier dropped out of the competition,” someone whispered. 

“Too bad, he was my favorite,” another voice replied.

That didn’t bode well, Geralt thought. Deep down, he hoped that it was all an elaborate joke to get back at him or something, but if there was one thing that Jaskier didn’t joke about, it was music. That specific competition meant nothing to him; it was open to anyone and more or less a fundraiser for the academy – and yet he had been speaking about it at length, detailing how he would dress and what he would play. Geralt had pretended not to care about it, but he had been listening anyway.

The new contestant started declaiming poetry, and people didn’t even look at Geralt when he stood up and left. Spending too long inside the sturdy walls of the academy had made him soft, he thought. He was usually more cautious – not that he didn’t trust Jaskier to take care of himself, but the bard had an uncanny knack for attracting trouble. And afterwards, he would claim excessively loudly that it wasn’t his fault. 

Something akin to unease twisted his guts, as he hurried away from the hall, bumping into people in the dark corridor, and not caring about their angry mutterings in his wake.

*

Jaskier’s room was in a spectacular state of disarray, but upon closer inspection it did look like regular – pre-show – Jaskier activity. Several doublets were draped all over furniture. Notebooks and pages had flown all over the floor. There was ink on the covers and crumpled papers all around the bed. The lute wasn’t there, and neither was Jaskier.

Following his scent was easy enough – citrusy soap, ink and oils. Geralt imagined him strapped in his gaudiest outfit, callused fingers caressing the strings, walking quickly down the corridor in the direction of the concert hall. Distracted. Inattentive. His smell changed at one point, sharp and peppery – fear or surprise. Something, or someone, had startled him.

“Armed men came in, half a dozen of them,” someone whispered confidently behind him. 

“Hmm?” Geralt inquired, turning slowly to meet a young woman hiding behind her half open door. 

“They waltzed in and grabbed him… Poor thing,” she lamented. 

Geralt smiled briefly at that; of course she would pity the bard, even if he probably was responsible for his own misfortune.

“I’m pretty sure Valdo is behind it,” she said, her tone conspiratory. “He knew he couldn’t win against Jaskier.” 

Geralt nodded and let her accuse and theorize, until he had gathered enough information to retrieve his bard. How they had managed to get in with weapons and out with their hostage was beyond Geralt – but maybe people just decided to look the other way. He thought that Jaskier was well loved around here, but he knew how obnoxious he could get sometimes – all the time, he mentally corrected.

Scared students pointed him in the right direction, but the mob had left so many clues in their wake that it felt like they wanted to be followed. Nobody in their right mind would want to be tracked by a witcher, but that Valdo seemed like a special character. Organizing an abduction to win an art competition took a special kind of crazy – as far as he knew, there wasn’t any coin to win. But maybe it was normal bard behavior and that sort of thing happened regularly. 

There was another trail, even easier to follow, of bitter fear and pungent outrage. Some salted tears, but no blood. It was still enough olfactory misery to send his blood boiling – metaphorically only, because his heart was following the same slow rhythm as always but it felt different than a contract, more personal. 

He found them by the docks and didn’t even need to draw his sword. The men looked like brutes, which may have been enough to intimidate scholars but couldn’t fool a witcher. They weren’t used to violence and most of them bolted when Geralt kicked the door in, while the remaining fools tried to fight, only to regret that decision seconds later when they lost teeth and acquired new bruises. 

Locating Jaskier inside the house took even less time. There was a dull banging coming from the far wall, and he quickly found the mechanism that opened a hidden door to a smugglers cache. It was filled with crates and a very annoyed-looking bard. 

He was trussed up and gagged, and there was a shallow cut on his cheekbone that made Geralt very angry. Jaskier whipped his head up when the door opened and blinked at him, tense and afraid. But as soon as he realized who it was, he started muttering through the gag.

“Hmm, hmm-mm?” 

“What?” 

Geralt took the gag out of his mouth, and Jaskier repeated, “I said, is the competition over?”

“I guess,” Geralt shrugged. 

“Damn, they could have halted it,” Jaskier whined, brushing his head against his shoulder to push the dirty rag further down his chin. 

“Not sure anyone cared that you were missing,” Geralt said. He tried to help him up to free his hands, but Jaskier was not staying still and the cache was cramped as hell. “Your friend Valdo told the judges you dropped out,” he added with a smirk; it was mean of him but he wanted to see Jaskier’s reaction.

“Of course, Valdo is behind it!” Jaskier growled, as expected. He thrashed around, probably tightening the knots even more. “Untie me and give me a weapon, I’m going to skin that weasel alive.” 

“Are you sure that’s wise?” Geralt pondered.

He gripped the scruff of Jaskier’s doublet, pulling him to his feet before he could aggravate his situation any further. 

“I’ll bite his face off if I need to,” Jaskier spat. “Please untie me,” he asked again, softer this time.

Geralt turned him around; his fingers were white with lack of circulation and his wrists had started to bruise. He carefully cut through the rope, and Jaskier rubbed his hands with a wince. 

“You should have gone after him,” Jaskier growled as soon as he was free. “Actually, I’m glad you didn’t, because I really need to snuff the life out of him myself.” 

He got out of the house, flinging the door open and blinking in the evening sun. As if the witcher had a habit of killing anyone who wronged him or his friends; Geralt didn’t comment and crossed his arms, waiting for him to calm down. 

“Although necromancy is a thing, right? So we could just ask a mage to revive him just to kill him again over and over and…”

“Jaskier, breathe!”

Geralt put a hand on his shoulder, effectively cutting his murderous tirade short. He must have sounded worried, because big blue eyes settled on his face, checking him over, making sure he wasn’t injured. Just the opposite of what should be happening, Geralt thought with a smile. 

*

They walked back to the Academy, a strange pair in the crowded streets – Geralt couldn’t tell what people were ogling though. Was it Jaskier’s torn up clothes and messy hair, or the tracks tears left on his dirty face? Was it his own face, stony in its determination to keep from laughing as Jaskier explained what he was going to do to Valdo in excruciating detail? Maybe they felt guilty for not stopping the kidnapping earlier – but let’s be honest, that sort of thing happened way too often, even in well guarded cities like Oxenfurt. 

“I should get a sword,” Jaskier blurted out, interrupting Geralt’s musings. “Maybe a dagger, or a rapier…”

“I should buy you a bell, like the ones cows wear in the field,” Geralt muttered. He raised an eyebrow as if daring Jaskier to argue.

“Didn’t you ask Yennefer to make you a tracking spell? Did she tell you to get lost?”

He air quoted that last part, and Geralt hmm-ed quietly. Yennefer did have some unsavory remarks about the bard, and how misplacing him wouldn’t be a great loss. 

“What if one day I’m too late,” Geralt finally said. “What if,” he continued, capturing Jaskier’s hand and examining the bruises cinching his wrist, “what if someday you really get hurt?”

“Then you’ll come and rescue me. Or I’ll rescue myself.” Jaskier shrugged. “I’ve had worse,” he added, following Geralt’s gaze on his arm. He patted the witcher’s hand and continued chirping about revenge and plotting Valdo’s murder. 

Geralt wondered if it had already happened in the past; a prank escalating to a full-blown kidnapping, practical jokes getting more and more dangerous each time.

*

The whole thing didn’t sit well with him, and he made sure to accompany Jaskier on a lute-retrieval mission a few days later. Once the instrument was found intact in his rival’s room, Jaskier decided to trash the place entirely. At least he wasn’t murdering anyone, Geralt thought, as he watched the corridor to make sure they weren’t interrupted. 

Jaskier was still sporting the shadow of a black eye, now turning an ugly shade of yellow. It looked strange on his young face, but there was a murderous glint in his eye as he dropped Valdo’s trophy out of the window. He cackled when a passerby picked it up and ran away to pawn it or melt it down.

It was going to be a long winter, Geralt thought.


	2. Love

Geralt wasn’t a funny man to be around, Jaskier thought as he looked at his empty tankard with a forlorn frown. Sure the witcher was mysterious and sexy, but traveling with him felt like being a constant bother to the man, and it was frustrating for everyone involved.

Jaskier didn’t get the poetry material he was hoping for, and Geralt mumbled annoyed secrets to his horse while trying to outpace him. Good thing Jaskier didn’t tire easily; although he suspected the witcher was only pretending to be rude, and was in fact quite accommodating by his own twisted standards. 

This was long before the mere thought of inviting Geralt over to Oxenfurt for the winter had even crossed his mind, when Jaskier didn’t know yet that what he mistook for hostility was in fact deep and awkward friendliness that the witcher wasn’t sure how to express.

Jaskier ordered another drink, wondering what was taking Geralt so long. Maybe he had found some entertainment on the way – although fun activities in this town seemed to be limited to cockfights or fistfights. Maybe he just forgot about him altogether.

The beer tasted funny and that should have been his first clue. It got him drunk way too fast – second clue – while the tavern owner looked the other way, polishing the counter with a dirty rag, over and over. There were so many clues that the whole evening was going to turn sour real fast, and he somehow managed to miss them all.

When Jaskier tried to get out, stumbling through the crowded room on wobbly legs, it was already too late. A woman he didn’t recognize – everything was blurry all of sudden – helped him find the back door, shoving and pulling, while he struggled to stay upright and stay awake. He didn’t even get to see if she was pretty before he passed out in a dark alleyway behind the town’s tavern.

He didn’t even pay for his drinks, and that was his last coherent thought.

*

He woke up groggy and sore, gagged and tied up, lying under a tarp in the back of a moving cart, like a piece of merchandise to be sold. Great, just great. He didn’t deserve that, he didn’t know anyone in that part of the Continent – wait, did he? He suddenly wasn’t so sure, and maybe that brunette helping the farrier had seemed familiar, when she was giving them the stink eye. 

The witcher must have been relieved to see him gone come morning, he thought bitterly. One less annoying nuisance to plague his life, probably. Jaskier wondered if he’d notice he left half his things behind, or if his captors had grabbed that as well. Geralt did seem like the observant type, but he also didn’t look very concerned about his well-being most of the time.

He’d have to rescue himself then, Jaskier thought. He tried to chew through the gag, but only managed to drool and make it even harder to breathe. He couldn’t even lift his head enough to peek and get a sense of where they were. He couldn’t hear any voices, only the wind and the sound of hooves on the uneven road. At least they weren’t in the middle of a creepy forest. 

He must have wiggled a bit too much for his captors’ taste, because a boot nudged his ribs, not yet hurting but threatening to. He stilled.

*

By the time they reached their destination, Jaskier was disoriented and probably dehydrated. His skin felt too tight and the gag was torture in the stifled air – how long had they been riding? Were they going in circles to throw him off? 

When the cart stopped and someone got the tarp off him, Jaskier didn’t even try to fight or protest. He just blinked at the harsh sun, trying to focus on the face of his captor. Captors, from the looks of it – unless he was seeing double, still under the influence of whatever drug they used.

Standing next to the cart, towering over him, was a giant – seriously, the man was even taller and more muscular than Geralt – and an angry looking woman. Jaskier had no recollection of either of them, but the castle behind stirred vague memories of a banquet or a ball, somewhere he was invited, or maybe a party he crashed. He squinted, not liking the way the sun was making his brain hurt.

The man got the gag out of his mouth, and Jaskier gulped some fresh air like a dying fish, bound and still lying on his side.

“You sure that’s him?” the woman asked, sounding circumspect. 

“Of course it is I, Jaskier, poet, lover and musician,” he tried to joke, but his croaking voice was somewhat undermining the effect. “You didn’t have to go through all this trouble…” 

A knife flickered in the giant’s hand, and Jaskier tried to wiggle back. “Wow there, easy!” 

But the man paid him no mind and grabbed his flailing legs to cut the rope circling his feet. Pins and needles came rushing, and Jaskier winced as he was dragged upright; he stumbled but managed to follow, confused and worried. 

*

They brought him inside, yanked him along a dark corridor. Jaskier tripped once more as his foot caught on the heavy carpet, and the giant shook him like an unruly puppy. The woman led the way to a small door, away from the main room, and they shoved him down some stairs, pestering against him for being uncooperative and poorly coordinated. 

“I really don’t like where this is going,” Jaskier mumbled, not talking to anyone in particular. He didn’t get any answer anyway. “What is that? A sex dungeon? I’m more than willing to…”

But he never got to finish his sentence, as he was pushed roughly to the stony ground. He caught himself awkwardly with his bound hands and nearly clipped his chin on the floor. The air was icy down there, and when he looked up, he saw two things that filled him with dread. Iron shackles hanging from the back wall, and Lady Sarmansk, arms crossed with a stern look on her face.

“Of course you have a torture chamber in your castle,” Jaskier chuckled, but it was joyless and a bit forced.

His eyes met the house owner’s and they were the same deep shade of stormy blue that sent a chill down his spine. Disjointed memories came back to him, and he realized with distant shame that he probably wouldn’t be able to sweet talk his way out of this mess. 

So he did the next best thing. He tried to run. Tried, because the stairs were narrow and dark and he slipped and fell heavily. He scrambled to get back up, desperate to escape, but the giant’s hand closed on his ankle and tugged him back down. 

He got hauled back to his feet once again, half strangled by his own doublet. The other woman was giggling in the back, like she was enjoying the show. And then Lady Sarmansk approached, a storm brewing in her eyes.

“Come on, you can’t be serious,” he cooed, trying to look suave but failing; blood ran down his chin and his tongue hurt where he had bitten it. 

She slapped him across the face. 

“Oh gods,” he whispered, “you actually are.” 

After that, all fight left him; he let the giant drag him to the wall and close the cuffs on his wrists.

*

The torture part took a little longer than he expected to begin because Jaskier’s captors started arguing and ultimately left him hanging, quite literally. The cellar was dark and damp, and Jaskier sniffled sadly, muttering that he didn’t deserve this. 

Even if they were unable to decide if they’d be ripping out his teeth or his nails first, his captors had searched him thoroughly and he couldn’t feel his dagger in his boot. Not that he would have been able to retrieve it, with his hands tied above his head. But the cuffs weren’t as tight as he first feared, and maybe he could try and squeeze his hand through it.

He was clenching his teeth to keep quiet against the pain in his thumb when a loud crash from upstairs startled him. He stilled, listening in. There was a distinct possibility that the three crazy people holding him had gotten into an actual fight over who’d get to torture him first, but he could hear voices. For a very brief instant he thought he might be hallucinating, but it did sound like a pissed off Geralt. 

*

Jaskier didn’t even need to yell. The door leading to the cellar crashed open and he heard footsteps coming down, followed by angry shouting. Jaskier let out a sigh of relief. Even if he was confident he could have gotten out on his own, some way or another, his immediate future was looking pretty bleak before the witcher’s arrival.

Geralt was a sight for sore eyes, Jaskier thought. It was a bit disappointing to see that his lunatic hosts were still alive and apparently unharmed. It was also very annoying that Geralt seemed angry at him. He stood there, arms crossed, making no move to free him. 

“What did you do?” he said, and his tone sounded mocking and accusatory, or maybe Jaskier was just a little bit on edge.

“Why do you assume it’s something I did!” he protested, shaking the cuffs.

“I heard the songs, Jaskier, you have enemies in every city…” Geralt said. He looked tired. Why did he look tired, he didn’t get drugged and kidnapped and chained to a wall…

Jaskier tried to wiggle his thumb out of the cuff again, because if Geralt had come all this way just to taunt him, he’d better get on with it when everyone was distracted. 

“What did he even do to you?” Geralt asked again, this time to Lady Sarmansk and her minions.

Outraged voices erupted all at once. “He slept with my sister!” the woman cried; her sister must have been prettier, because Jaskier couldn’t remember her. “He slept with my mom,” the giant said, which would have been comical if he hadn’t had hands large enough to crush his skull. “He promised to marry me,” Lady Sarmansk said, her voice icy as ever.

Geralt raised a hand to stop the noise, and strangely enough it did the trick and they fell silent. He turned towards Jaskier and asked, “Is it true?” 

Jaskier tried to look contrite, but he couldn’t deny any of it, even if he had a hard time remembering everyone involved.

“Probably.” He shrugged. “I mean, I do say things I don’t mean all the time, it’s probably just a huge misunderstanding…”

“I’m going to rip his balls,” someone growled. Fists tightened and the giant looked enraged, slightly foaming at the mouth.

“Now, wait, that’s a bit excessive, isn’t it?” Jaskier babbled. “At least nobody is pregnant, right?” Doubt crossed his face and he frowned. “Right?” 

“Jaskier?” Geralt asked.

“Yes?” 

“Shut up now.” 

Jaskier did, even if he still believed he could have explained himself. Probably. He sagged in the cuffs, even if it hurt his arms, and waited for Geralt to do his thing.

He was expecting blood, but he got words instead, more than he had ever heard coming out of Geralt’s mouth in one day. The witcher talked about marital law, honor, and the damage rumors of murder could do to a reputation. It was dizzying, and the others seemed to be taken aback as well. 

“He’s a terrible person,” Geralt concluded, “but he's also my bard and nobody hurts him except myself.” 

He grabbed the key Lady Sarmansk begrudgingly held out and unlocked the cuffs. Jaskier opened his mouth to… he didn’t even know, maybe thank him, maybe ask if he was hallucinating. He fell forward, right into Geralt’s arms, and the hug was as unexpected as the speech.

“Thanks?” he muttered into the broad chest. “But also ouch. Stop hugging me so tight, I can’t breathe.” 

When Geralt finally let go, he pushed him up the stairs without a word, guiding him with a hand between his shoulder blades, effectively shielding him until they got outside.

*

They didn’t really speak about it until much later that day, but there were subtle things that let Jaskier know Geralt wasn’t actually pissed at him. He made sure he got all his things back before they left the inn, grabbed food for him, and offered to mend the tear in his doublet – Jaskier hadn’t even realized it was there, he didn’t recall it happening.

They were sitting around a campfire in the woods when he finally realized the danger he had been in. That was when Geralt started talking again, sensing that the silence needed to be filled. 

“Thanks to you, I’m going to be richer this winter,” Geralt said.

He threw a twig in the fire, while Jaskier looked at him with a frown, because it didn’t make sense. He should have been mad for losing a day tracking down and rescuing the idiot bard, instead of pursuing whatever contract the town had to offer. 

“I had a bet with Lambert,” Geralt said with a shrug. “About which would get you in trouble first, your cock or your mouth. I won.” 

Jaskier let out outraged noises, flailed dramatically – even though it hurt his bruised hands – but deep down he was weirdly flattered that Geralt had mentioned him to his fellow witchers.

“Why are you smiling?” 

“I knew you talked about me.” 

“To tell them how insufferable and annoying you are,” Geralt said with the hint of a smirk. 

“Try all you can to pretend you don’t care about me.” Jaskier waved his hand dismissively. “We both know it’s not true.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took forever and a half.


End file.
